


Signposts of Life

by cheshirecatstrut



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Angst and Romance, F/M, Post-Season/Series 03 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 12:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14832452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshirecatstrut/pseuds/cheshirecatstrut
Summary: If Veronica had texted, and Logan had answered, how would things have changed?





	Signposts of Life

**Author's Note:**

> A fix-it AU for a canon moment that to me felt out of character. Warning for true-to-MKAT imaginings of personal doom that ultimately go nowhere.

Logan wakes on a strange sofa, with a parched throat and throbbing head, when a stray shaft of sunlight falls across his eyes. He blinks and focuses, woozy, on a star-shaped crystal hanging from a curtain rod, refracting rainbows along the wall. It feels like a sign. Of what, he’s not sure--he’s no poet. Something that matters, though.

He shoves upright, swooning as blood rushes to his head, rubs a thumb at the throb between his brows. He doesn’t recognize this house, but it’s way too clean to have recently hosted a party. On the plus side, he’s not naked in some strange girl’s bed.

A quick glance downward confirms his shirt is stained—maybe puke, it smells bad enough. Logan tries to remember what happened after they smoked all that hash last night, can’t. Just a vague memory of laughing in a car and blasting music, then blackness. He feels weak and achy however, so hung over he’s toxic, and he’s not wearing any shoes.

His phone buzzes and he yanks it from his pocket. It’s a text from Dick: _Hey asshole, Miranda wants 2 know where TF U went._ Logan debates replying _no clue,_ which has the merit of being true; decides he doesn’t care how Dick (or Miranda, whoever the hell she is) feels. He notes the date as he moves to put it away—October 3rd--and groans. Now the pre-emptive blackout makes sense.

Getting up, he spins in a slow circle…he’s in a sunroom, walled in glass, which opens onto a private beach. The door hangs ajar a few inches, so he shoves it wide and walks outside. It’s early morning, cool and dim; sunshine randomly pierces the clouds like a searchlight wielded by angels, then gets blocked by the massing storm. Like his life, he reflects, as he gazes out over the water. An occasional ray of light, but mostly grey nothingness, stretching to the horizon forever.

He stinks and he can’t stand himself, so he throws phone-wallet-keys down on the deserted beach and walks into the water. Stands there for who knows how long, letting near-shore wavelets buffet him. The ocean’s cold, he’s got no wetsuit, but fuck playing it safe. If he dies of hypothermia and Trina gets his money, she’ll buy a case of champagne and dance on his grave.

The Great Beyond beckons, so he swims out farther, floats on his back to watch seagulls wheeling and cawing. Thinks, _enough_. How many days have played out like this, useless parties followed by wrecked mornings-after? Nothing he does means much, anymore--HE doesn’t mean much anymore. So maybe he should just…let go. Sink under. _Would I be too much of a pussy to pull off suicide?_ he wonders. _Would I feel afraid, or simply relax and drift away? Is it possible I’d end up in the same place as Lilly? And if so, would that constitute a reward for endurance, or a punishment for sins?_

He can’t summon the rage he used to feel towards Lils anymore, though. _We were just kids_ , he thinks, as his body defies morbid imaginings and keeps right on floating. _Just dumb, pretty kids with too much money and not enough love, playing grown-ups. Surrounded by adults who treated us like equals because they wanted in our pants. I didn’t know, then, how…empty being an actual grown-up would feel. And you NEVER will. You’ll stay sixteen and beautiful until the end of time, charming us in spite of our reservations, having fun playing with fire._

The shivers become full-body, uncontrollable, so he rolls onto his stomach and swims back to shore. Takes off his soaking wet, barf-stained orange pullover and throws it as far as he can. Gathers up his sandy possessions and hikes up the beach towards the road, trying not to think about what he almost just did.

He skirts the house he still doesn’t recognize, noting a BMW in the driveway and a tricycle on the porch, and makes his way up the sidewalk. It’s a tony neighborhood, iron fences and old trees, plantation-style mansions set back from the street. Two well-kept trophy wives in head-to-toe Prana are out for a morning powerwalk; they give him filthy looks as he passes, because they’ve got no clue how many millions he’s worth.

To be fair, he also has no clue. And it’s never been more obvious than it is at this moment that he’s NOT worth much, with or without money.

About a block down, the road’s clogged with sports cars and discarded bottles. He passes the house from which he no doubt staggered to his nap couch, since one of Dick’s frat brothers is passed out on the lawn. His Maserati convertible’s parked sideways in a prime spot, front wheels up on the curb, one door hanging open; there’s a half-full fifth of Jack on the passenger’s seat. Serendipity, he thinks, climbing in. Grabs the booze, sets down his phone, and takes a long, meditative swallow. It burns his throat, going down, but the pain in his head recedes.

A rummage through the backseat produces an old Sex Wax shirt, which he pulls on inside-out. His phone buzzes again as he’s fumbling with his keys.

“Fuck you, Dick,” he mutters, wedging one into the ignition and backing slowly off the curb. “And fuck Miranda, whoever she may be. Fuck my life and fuck this day, and fuck these clouds that never seem to part. Also, fuck this festive evening out that seems to have precipitated my rock bottom.”

Weaving his way between randomly-abandoned vehicles, he motors out of the gated neighborhood, summoning a sarcastic wave for the guard. The wind is cold in his salt-stiff hair. When he turns on the radio while merging onto the highway, ‘Breathe Me’ by Sia begins to play.

And like sand sliding backwards into the ocean, he lets himself think about her, just for one masochistic minute. Veronica, kissing him in the Neptune High parking lot like she never wanted to stop. Small, fierce and eager in his arms, so into him it never occurred to her someone might be watching. So into him it seemed impossible they’d ever let each other go.

But they did. SHE did. Just one more woman on a long list who got sick of his bullshit and took a powder. Miranda doesn’t realize yet she lucked out, getting ditched by Logan Echolls. Maybe someday she’ll feel grateful.

His stomach rumbles, so he chugs the rest of the booze to fill it while he pulls off an exit ramp, then into a McDonalds drive-through. He orders three Egg McMuffins and a large Coke through the crackling speaker, and smirks at the cashier who stares at him, appalled. Hands her a soggy fifty.

The phone buzzes again while he’s waiting for his food, and he glances sideways at the display, mentally reviewing caustic retorts. Frowns and picks it up, because this message is far too grammatically correct to be a missive from his housemate.

_Just want you to know,_ it says, _you’re not the only one missing her today._

Then below that, _they say no one’s really gone until every loved one forgets them. And so we’re clear—I’ll never forget._

“Sir?” The woman in the drive-through window shakes a bag to get his attention, and he jerks back to awareness, dropping the phone like it’s hot. Turns mechanically to accept his food, then drives into the lot to park.

Picks up the cell again to stare at the message, and his hand’s not shaking, not really. He’s just super fucking cold and he puked all over his sweater.

She does this, sometimes, Veronica Mars—texts at random moments, apropos of nothing. He pictures her in a tidy Stanford dorm room with her Cuba travel poster on the wall, hair twisted up in a pencil, sending nonsensical missives into the wasteland of her past. Her messages never require a reply: _I saw a mutt today with the most hangdog expression and thought, did someone pull an Eddie Dowd on Luke Haldemann?_ Or _why can’t Whataburger make ketchup packets in ample serving sizes?_

Logan never answers. He knows she’s better off far from the toxic stew of life in Neptune. And he’s enough of a pragmatist to realize he’s got one, and only one, skill—the siren-like ability to lure women to ruin. Veronica’s proven before she’s not immune. Which would be fine, if she really wanted him, since she’s strong enough to save them both. But it’s ruinous to what’s left of his heart when she doesn’t.

This message, though. He stares down at the small phone in his large, wind-chapped hand. It feels like that stray beam of light, waking him before cops were called. It feels like his car, unexpectedly waiting by the curb to spirit him away.

So he types, _the past beats inside me like a second heart._ Then fiddles with the wrapper on a McMuffin while his stomach twists into a knot.

Her answer comes swiftly, because Veronica doesn’t dally. _That quote isn’t very inspirational._

He smiles and types, _inspirational—not Banville’s forte._

No reply is immediately forthcoming, so he sets the phone on the dash and eats—methodically consuming everything he purchased, feeling like maybe, for once, nourishment’s important. He’s halfway through hash brown three, freeing a fragment from his teeth with his tongue, when the cell buzzes again.

He swallows thickly and grabs it up. The message reads only, _I miss you._

_Shoes_ , he thinks, staring at the small, glowing display. _Right now what I need are SHOES._

Wadding up his garbage he tosses it, along with the phone, onto the passenger seat, and careens out of the lot without bothering to use his blinker. There’s a Payless a block down the access road; he swerves into the strip mall and parks in the loading zone, checking his watch as he disembarks.

Fuck, it’s eight AM. Maybe fate’s not on his side after all.

There’s a guy inside, though, sweeping the floor. So Logan pounds on the door, and holds a still-damp hundred to the glass. With a shrug the guy unlocks, then goes back to his chore, barely sparing a glance for Logan’s disheveled, barefoot state.

“Men’s twelve?” Logan asks, and the guy points towards boxes piled on plain steel shelves. Logan winces, aesthetic offended, but needs must. He locates a pair of grey Sketchers in his size, holds them up to his sand-smeared foot to compare, then sits to lace and knot. The sweeper leans on his broom, watching with brows raised. But he accepts the hundred Logan tucks into his shirt pocket with a pat, and even calls, anemically, “Have a nice day!” as Logan strides back out.

Climbing into his car, he unearths his phone and types, _what are you doing this morning?_

The answer comes immediately, as if she’s been waiting. Watching the screen, the way he did, for a slow-to-appear text. _Psych class. Then I have to cram for two exams. Sometimes I think all this book learning will make my brain leak out my ears._

Extracting a map of CA from the glove box, he spreads it open over the dash and studies. Shoves it back when he’s done and types, _you could always throw school over for an exciting career in food service._

_Been there, done that_ , she replies. _Have the espresso-machine burn scars to prove it._

He considers. _Tom Cruise co-star? You’re short enough._

_I’d pull three all-nighters in a row to avoid THAT fate,_ she informs him, and he grins.

The entrance ramp beckons, so Logan tucks the phone gently into his pocket and drives up it, merging onto the highway headed north. Whistles through his teeth as he locates coins to pay the tolls.

XXXXX  
At two-thirty, Veronica surfaces from a Biopsychology fugue state, emerges from her book fort at the Liberal Arts library, and decides she won’t get more done without coffee.

Methodically, she begins stacking texts—keep busy when life gets stressful, that’s her motto. Be proactive and you won’t fall apart. Her phone, positioned carefully atop the smallest pile, stays silent, mocking the effectiveness of this strategy. _But you know what?_ she thinks. _Fuck Logan Echolls for being friendly for the first time in TWO YEARS and then just…stopping._

He’s probably drunk on a beach somewhere right now, entertaining hangers-on with sarcastic bon mots, trying not to mope about Lilly himself. Veronica’s seen the recent segments on TMZ TV detailing his excesses…not that she’s gossip-show-STALKING him or anything.

Shoving the last book into her pack with extra oomph, she shoulders the thing with a groan. Thinks _God, Lilly, if you could see me now, you’d throw up your hands and admit failure. I’ve got no social plans, no boyfriend, no manicure, and worst of all, no TAN._

Veronica tries to imagine her OG BFF studying all day in the dark, training for a career. Can’t. Lils would be on the beach drinking with Logan, probably fondling him under a blanket. She’d laugh if chided, and say, “Who needs a JOB, Mars, when I’ve got the Kane family name?”

GOD, Lilly’s imaginary adulthood sounds nice. Sometimes Veronica gets so unutterably weary of pretending to be GOOD.

Staggering outside carrying half her body weight, she surveys gathering clouds with a frown; calculates the fastest route to the Student Union so she won’t get drenched. Taking off at a trot, she skids when the sky opens up anyway, barely managing to keep her balance. Breaks into a run towards the shelter of the Law Library…and of course that’s when her phone finally buzzes in her pocket.

“Ugh!” she grunts, ducking inside and shedding her backpack with a thunk, much to the consternation of a dozen sleep-deprived students. She rolls her eyes, removes her sweatshirt to dry her hair, thumbing her sidekick open as she tousles.

The text reads, _what are you doing now?_ and she huffs, because THIS is the best he could come up with after seven HOURS of radio silence? He’s DEFINITELY drunk. But at least he remembered to respond eventually, despite the models.

_Deciding which tree in this courtyard to chop down for my ark,_ she types in reply. _It might be slow going, the only tool I’ve got’s a ruler._

_There’s always your rapier wit,_ he says, and she smiles.

_If I speak, I’m afraid the Law Library denizens will attack en masse, zombie-horde-style_ , she tells him. _Better to wait out the rain. What are YOU doing?_

_Braving the very element you’re avoiding_ , he answers. _In shoes not designed for the task._

_As if any shoes you’d wear are designed for any task._

_You’d be surprised,_ comes the immediate response. _VERY._

She lifts her brows and types, _aren’t you worried you’ll ruin your phone, texting in the rain?_ Then ducks under her sweatshirt as the door’s shoved open, admitting a drenching gust.

“Nah,” a masculine voice says just beyond the fabric, a note of humor in the words. “I bought an umbrella from a booth on the quad. Although I’ve gotta admit--under normal circumstances, Hello Kitty would not be my first choice.”

She tosses the sweatshirt aside, and yeah, it’s Logan. Soaking wet with his tee on inside-out, sporting three days of razor stubble and electric-socket hair. Her mouth opens soundlessly and he smiles, that one-corner-of-the-lips crooked quirk that turns her good girl sensibilities to dust.

“You!” she manages, and the other corner of his mouth twists. Like he’s…uncertain?

“Me,” he says evenly, and she walks to him. Puts her arms around his waist.

He hesitates for a minute, still holding the umbrella—then tosses it aside and hugs her back. He smells like stale beer and sea salt and sweat and hamburger; and it’s good, SO GOOD, to feel him solid and unharmed against her skin. Because sometimes, Veronica can admit to herself, she worries. Logan’s never been stellar at playing things safe.

“I figured,” she murmurs, nestling her nose into his sternum, “when you didn’t write back for so long, that you were on a beach somewhere. You know. Keeping busy to forget.”

“I WAS on a beach, in fact,” he says. “This morning. But here’s much better, by a long shot.”

Something in his voice…a note of irony, a faint dark twist…concerns her. When she looks up, though, he’s just watching her with that wholly engrossed dark gaze she’s so missed. “Are you okay?” she asks.

“You know,” he says, the warmth in his eyes going molten, “I think I’m beginning to be.”

Flustered, she turns to study raindrops on the windowpanes, and possibly also his reflection. “Well regardless, I’m glad you’re here,” she says; because she IS glad, desperately so, that he takes impulsive initiative. Because she wants him standing next to her like this the way she wants to solve every puzzle, but she’d never have summoned the courage to ask. “And since you are…how would Lilly have liked us to remember her, do you think, on this particular morbid anniversary? Should we develop some new tradition in her name?”

“She’d have wanted us to be together,” he says, turning his head to study her face. “Double the attention, double the fun was Lilly Kane’s motto. Beyond that…I’m not sure. Maybe we should hang out here until the rain stops. Wait for a sign.”

Veronica nods, reaching tentatively across the space between them to thread her fingers through his. She told Logan once it would take some time to get over the things he’d done. She feels, right this moment, as if maybe it’s taken long enough.

He entwines his hand with hers, his so big and warm, so strong. Outside, the rain skitters to a stop, and the sun comes out at last.


End file.
